


Just Like The Films

by EllaStorm



Category: British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Banter, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, Filming, Friends to Lovers, I'm SUCH A Cliche For Writing This, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 06:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20169925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllaStorm/pseuds/EllaStorm
Summary: Taron has been thinking about Richard. A lot. In a not-strictly-heterosexual way. Getting drunk with him in London after recording their carpool karaoke doesn’t really set him straight. Much the opposite, actually.





	Just Like The Films

**Author's Note:**

> Curse you and your sudden but inevitable appeal, Madderton-RPF-corner of AO3.
> 
> I broke. I wrote. It’s mostly the fault of the authors in this fandom. Y’all are writing some pretty damn high-quality stuff, and I’m inspired, okay? Richard, Taron – I love you. Just please never, never read this. Thank you.
> 
> Title taken from “Absolute Beginners” by the one and only David Bowie. Obviously.

“Finally,” Taron sighed, stretching his limbs, the cool October air nipping at his skin as the camera crew drove off. The sun was already sinking, and he could still feel the slightest remnants of the hangover from the morning tug at his nervous system. Under different circumstances he might have been tired – but after _this _his spirits were way too high for him to be feeling even remotely exhausted.

Richard’s hand landed on his back, his eyes stark-blue. _Ha. Stark-blue. See what I did there? _Taron blinked the unhelpful pop-culture cross-reference his brain supplied him with away and nodded at his friend. “Wasn’t too shabby, was it? Bit much runnin’ around, but other than that…”

“You make it sound like it’s hardship working with me,” Richard gave back, emphasising the words in a way that signified he was less than serious, and let go of Taron with an affectionate slap to his shoulder.

“Greatest hardship of my life working with you, Dicky. I just _hate _sitting next to you in a car, singing for hours on end and having to watch you be all handsome and witty. Terrible job I have.”

Despite the fact that Taron managed to make it sound like he didn’t mean what he said at all, a small, familiar twinge in his stomach informed him that he wasn’t being entirely honest with himself here.

It _was _a little torturous to work with Richard. Had been from day one, actually. Not because Taron wasn’t getting along with Richard, exactly. Taron did get along with Richard. Rather brilliantly. In fact, he got along with him in a way where Richard ordered _exactly _the right drinks for him without having to ask, where they stole each other’s jackets and air pods on the regular, where Taron called Richard to talk about how he’d just found the _perfect _place for the new Bowie-vinyl in his flat with Richard picking up and listening to him and letting nothing on despite the fact that Taron had forgotten about the whole pesky time-difference-business _again_ and it just happened to be 3 a.m. at Richard’s place in L.A.…and where, yes, it might have happened on the odd night that Taron had slipped up a little and pushed his hand down his briefs and thought of Richard’s lips and his eyes and his sly, lopsided smile and the gritty roll of his accent forming a few _very _indecent words as he got himself off; but then, who could blame him? If one was confronted with Richard Madden, gay, straight, bisexual or undecided…well, what was _Taron_ of all people supposed to do?

_Maybe not stare at him like a thunderstruck squirrel, that would be a start._

Taron cleared his throat and developed a sudden interest in his shoelaces; but Richard didn’t seem to have noticed his little bout of absence.

“Care for a pint?” The sentence rolled freely over Richard’s lips, and Taron winced a little at the mention of alcohol.

“Ummm – you remember that time we got blind drunk, like…not even 24 hours ago?”

Richard surveyed him with a bemused expression. “When did _that _line of argument ever stop you, Taron?”

“Since I’m almost 30?”

“Don’t talk to _me_ about age,” Richard scolded him. “You’re _28_. And if I – your senior of five years, let me remind you – can drink tonight, so can you. Come on. It’s our last evening.”

There was a small undertone in Richard’s voice that Taron would not exactly have called _pleading_, but close, maybe, and he nodded before he could think better of it.

“I’m going to hold you personally responsible for all damages done to my liver, Richard.”

“I’ll gladly take that responsibility. Might even drink to it, actually.”

Taron poked him in the ribs. “Tosser.”

“_Welsh_man,” Richard retorted and made it sound like an insult.

***

“_Why_ did I let you do that?” Taron whined. He wasn’t _that _drunk, not even close to the level of intoxication he’d experienced last night, but he liked the way Richard’s arm was wrapped around his waist under his jacket, bleeding warmth through the fabric of his shirt, and even though he didn’t technically _need_ Richard to hold him upright he didn’t want to let that arm disappear any time soon. That, as well as the scent Richard was giving off, pressed against his side, a mix of whisky, nicotine, tangy sweat and aftershave. He smelled rogue-ish, or… _James-Bond-ish_, if one truly wanted to go there, and Taron wanted to, Hell _yes_ did he want to, although…

“I’d never make it through that film,” he murmured, and Richard looked at him, one eyebrow rising in interest. _Oh, shit. _Maybe Taron was a _little bit _drunker than he’d thought he was. A blush was creeping onto his face, and Richard noticed.

“What did you say?” he asked. His voice was rough around the edges but also kind of _soft. _Safe. Like Taron could tell him everything. _Well, I can. Tell him everything. Apart from a few minor details – like this one._

“Nothing,” he said, but Richard dug his fingers into the soft flesh of Taron’s side and raised his eyebrow even higher.

“You said you’d never make it through…what film, exactly?”

“The 007 feature that you’re inevitably going to star in,” Taron blurted out, blush deepening, as he avoided eye contact and cursed the fact that Drunk Taron had never properly learned how to lie.

Richard chuckled next to him, deep and amused, and Taron could feel the reverberations in his ribcage – something that part of his brain thought was inordinately hot in a sudden and unhelpful way.

“_Inevitably_? That’s quite a word, love. I wouldn’t bank on it that much.”

“Oh, but you _should, _Richard. You’re just the right amount of classy and sharp and…dangerous and not to mention bloody _handsome_. You’re _perfect. _They would be idiots not to ask you.” That was when it sunk in that Richard had just called him _love_, and while usages of _ducky _and _T _and_ my lad _were not out of the ordinary, this one was a new one – one that made Taron’s pulse quicken rapidly, to his chagrin.

“So, if you think I’d be good – which, thank you, by the way, – why exactly wouldn’t you make it through the film?” Richard was asking now, concise and merciless, and Taron was at his (less-than-considerable-because-tipsy) wit’s end.

“I….well,because I…,” he stammered, and they came to a halt, rather suddenly, in the middle of the street. It took Taron a moment to realise that Richard had actively stopped them. His arm was still around Taron’s waist, and he was turning them both toward each other, until they were toe-to-toe and Taron was confronted with those unnaturally-blue eyes of Richard’s - which was when he knew that he was well and truly fucked.

“You were saying?” Richard said, and it sounded almost matter-of-factly, if not for that small, strained tone in his voice, and the fact that he had, indeed, stopped the both of them in the middle of the street out of absolutely nowhere.

“I was saying that…I might not make it through that movie, because…” _Think, Taron._

Nothing plausible was coming to mind, however, and Richard’s face was too close, way too close, and he was repeating “…because?”, with his breath brushing Taron’s mouth, and the words came out in a rush, sudden and less than thought-out.

“Because I’d get all hot and…and bothered not even ten minutes in. I’m not actually…it’s not…but you…” Taron stopped himself, when he realised that he hadn’t actually meant to tell Richard any of this. It just happened to be a little bit too late.

Nobody said anything for a few moments, and Taron wasn’t sober enough to go into full panic-mode just yet, but he wasn’t drunk enough, either, to misread what he’d just done; and, yes, panic _was_ coming towards him, sauntering in with a sort of complacent slowness.

Then Richard smiled. A rather…indecent smile. One that might have sprung directly from one of Taron’s dirty little fantasies, in fact, and Taron swallowed hard, panic suddenly pushed way to the back of his mind. Richard’s eyes followed the movement of his throat. Steadily. Deliberately.

“I reckon,” Richard said, his eyes moving back up, burning blue. “you’ve thought about that a lot?”

“I…” Taron couldn’t help but notice that Richard hadn’t tried to cover up any inherent awkwardness an unwanted advance directed at him might have caused. On the contrary. He looked…interested. Very interested. A bout of boldness struck Taron, some of it still courtesy of the alcohol, but some of it also prompted by the expression in Richard’s eyes and the fire it sparked in the pit of Taron’s stomach. “I have,” he said, finally. “Thought about a lot of different things. Concerning you.”

“Care to elaborate?” Richard gave back, and his smile turned a little wolfish in a way that made Taron’s jeans feel about two sizes too tight.

“Uh-“ he made, unintelligibly; and then he gave up and simply pressed his lips to Richard’s.

It wasn’t supposed to be unfamiliar to Taron, kissing Richard. And yes, the way Richard tilted his head, the way his stubble rubbed up against Taron’s skin, the way his breath fell into Taron’s mouth, wasn’t new. But the rest of it? Well… Taron realised very quickly that what he had experienced in front of the cameras when it came to kissing Richard had absolutely nothing to do with the way Richard kissed when he actually _wanted to_. His lips were hungry, hot, demanding in a kind of primal way, his body pressed up to Taron’s in a long, hard line, and it was absolutely fucking _spectacular_.

Taron panted like he’d just run ten miles, when they let go of each other, and Richard didn’t seem to fare much better than him, his eyes a lot less blue, irises blacked from the inside out.

“Christ, Taron, what you’re doing to me,” Richard said, accent thicker than usual. “Makes me think of a lot of things I’d like to do to _you_.”

Taron sucked in a gust of air, because _this _was the exact tone of voice that he’d always imagined when he’d thought of Richard like _that_, confident and a little commanding, and his cock was aching in his jeans.

“Like what, for example?” he asked, breathless. He registered, peripherally, that they were still in the middle of the street in the middle of London, probably half a mile away from their hotel, but he didn’t really care as much as he probably should have. He needed an answer from Richard more than anything else, right the fuck now.

The look in Richard’s eyes turned actively hungry, and just on the basis of _that _Taron was already grabbing at the front of his leather jacket, pulling him back in, almost murdering Richard's retort between them. “I’d rather show than tell,” Richard said, darkly, and a small groan slipped out of Taron’s mouth, that Richard picked off his lips with his teeth and tongue.

And then, suddenly, he let go of Taron and put enough distance between them to look him properly in the eye.

“You’re drunk,” he said, sternly, and it sounded a little bit regretful.

Taron shook his head. “No, no, no, Richard, I’m… I’m _tipsy_. Tipsy. I’m not – I want this. Want you.” Saying it, Taron became fully aware that he was, indeed, stating facts; facts that he was not going to change his mind on in a less inebriated state. “Wanted you for a while, Richard.”

Richard made a small sound in the back of his throat.

“Ever since,” Taron wracked his brain for a defining moment, and one _did _spring to mind, one that wasn’t actually the first time he’d ever laid eyes on Richard, because admitting that he’d already wanted him _then _seemed just a little…_much_. For this particular conversation. “Ever since we did the _Tiny Dancer _scene, late at night. I was sitting next to one of the campfires when you showed up on set, all dressed to the nines – you remember? Went back to my room that evening, and all I could think about was how you would show up at my door in that suit, and you’d ask me to get on my knees right in front of you and-“  


Richard’s index and middle finger over Taron’s lips shushed him, then, and Taron spotted a fair dose of barely-contained frustration in Richard’s gaze.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to control myself, if I let you go on with this story, Taron.”  
Taron’s lips stretched into a smile, and then, on a whim, he parted them and sucked Richard’s fingers right into his mouth.

“_Jesus,_” Richard growled, his eyes fixed to Taron’s lips, until Taron let go of his fingers with an obscene pop, the taste of salt and alcohol in their wake. They rested at Taron’s lower lip, unmoving, undecided, and Taron pushed his face even closer to Richard’s. “Would that be so bad now?” he asked, softly. “Losing control?” The idea of what Richard might be like in an _uncontrolled _state drove Taron quietly insane, and he felt like he really needed to see that as soon as humanly possible

Richard’s eyes darted down to Taron’s mouth, and his fingers twitched against his lips, but then he removed them from Taron’s face and sighed.

“Yes, Taron. Right now, yes. You’re drunk. I’m drunk. We should push the losing-control-bits to a time when that isn’t the case.”

“Why do you have to be so bloody _responsible_?” Taron grumbled. He knew Richard was right. Of course. Didn’t mean he had to like it, though.

“Because, my lad, I am your senior, and your welfare is very much of my concern.” The hungry look from before made a small reappearance in Richard’s eyes. “Tomorrow morning is a completely different story, however.”  
“You have to be at the airport at _eleven_,” Taron complained.

“Might make an early riser of you yet,” Richard retorted, and his hand was taking a very suggestive path down Taron’s flank, stopping just short of his waistline; and Taron shuddered a little.

“I like sleeping,” Taron teased, even though he knew very well that he would get up at _any given time_, with _that _incentive.

“Mh,” Richard made, pensively; and then there was a bit of a shit-eating grin on his face, right before he dove in and kissed Taron again, his tongue dirty-filthy-hot against Taron’s, one hand possessive at the nape of Taron’s neck, the other sliding down to squeeze at Taron’s arse through his jeans. When he released him, Taron felt as though his entire being were melting into the street, while his dick was harder than it had possibly ever been.

“Forget that, I don’t like sleeping.”

Richard was laughing now, the bastard. “So, you think eight a.m. is a reasonable time?”

“Very reasonable. Extremely, completely reasonable. Yes.” Taron leaned in again, trying to steal another kiss, but Richard didn’t let him.

“Eight it is, then, love. I’ll be there.”

Another small groan left Taron’s mouth at the pet name.

“You like that,” Richard said, and it wasn’t a question. “When I call you _love._” He smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“_Fuck, _Richard, just…I’m barely holding on here, mate. Get me back to the hotel and _stop teasing, _or I swear to God, all your responsibility will not save you from me sucking your dick right now, right here.”

Richard clenched his jaw, visibly, and then they were moving again, in the direction of their current dwelling, at a very brisk pace; and Taron smiled a little to himself, because he’d _almost_ made Richard lose control, and he found that he really liked doing that.

“Why, indeed, do I have to be so bloody responsible,” Richard murmured, resigned, and Taron’s smile broadened, when Richard’s arm slipped back around his waist to pull him in as they walked side by side back to the hotel.

**Author's Note:**

> I've recently stopped promising sequels or following chapters to any of my stuff, because by now I've failed to deliver on SO MANY occasions (yeah, I know, I suck at consistency in a rather epic way). 
> 
> Thus, this story shall remain, for all intents and purposes, a oneshot. To which a sequel may or may not follow :)
> 
> Thank you for reading, I love you all.


End file.
